


Everlasting

by prototyping



Category: Tales of Graces
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I need a rating above G but under T tbh, I've just been wanting soft romance lately ok, Post-Lineage & Legacies (Tales of Graces), Romance, also spoilers everywhere, as romantic as these dweebs can be I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 14:30:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15608316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: The calm around him is grounding, reassuring, a reminder of who he is despite the infinity dwelling in the back of his mind. [Asbel/Cheria]





	Everlasting

It isn’t like a nightmare. He doesn’t wake with a start or a gasp or in an anxious frenzy (like he did many, many times after leaving home as a child, wrenching himself from memory-dreams of _that day_ nearly every night for months)—instead he’s just suddenly conscious in a jump from sleep to awake, a jarring sensation when he realizes he’s sitting up and not even the least bit drowsy. His eyes are unadjusted but in an instant he’s hyperaware of a dozen other details—the hot blankets underneath and over him, the sweat on his forehead and back, the warm breeze trickling in through the window, the pounding in his temples and the fatigue clinging to every part of him, the familiar scents of wood and a gentle perfume, the distant ticking of the hallway clock and his own heavy breathing and the creak of the mattress beside him—

“Asbel?”

He blinks and his vision focuses a little at a time, just enough to make out the dark bedroom. There are no surprises: it’s much the same as it’s been all his life, with the exception of one less bed than before, some changes in the colors of the curtains and upholstery, a piano against the far wall, and a few decidedly feminine trinkets here and there. The night leaves most of those things in deep shadow, but three years has been more than enough time to grow accustomed to the changes.

A little belatedly, Asbel turns toward the voice that spoke—and the concerned eyes staring back at him are a different kind of familiar, like the memory of a deep ache. “Hey,” he greets quietly, his voice groggy in a way his other senses aren’t. His throat and mouth feel dry. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Cheria doesn’t answer, but only tilts her head as if the new angle might give her some better insight on what he’s thinking. “You’ve been sitting like that for nearly a minute,” she tells him. “Are you alright?”

His shoulders sag at that revelation. “Oh… I mean—yeah, I’m fine, though. Really.” Even as he says so, he can feel his headache starting to abate, but his eyes continue to sting and his chest still feels tight. “I just…” His search for a dismissable excuse comes up empty.

She doesn’t so much as blink. “Asbel… this is the third time this week that I’ve found you like this. That I know of,” she adds pointedly.

His smile turns equal parts sheepish and apologetic as he rubs the back of his head. “Yeah, I… guess it is.” He looks away before he can see her worried frown, but he knows it’s there. It’s something else familiar, but he’s seen it a lot less these past three years than he used to—which makes him feel all the guiltier whenever he manages to bring it back to her face.

After a moment Asbel exhales quietly, tilting his head back to look at their ceiling. “Sorry,” he repeats, “I don’t mean to keep things from you. I just… hate to make you worry.”

“Asbel… I’m going to worry more if I don’t know what’s going on.” She touches his shoulder gently, prompting him to look at her again. “Whether it’s nothing, or something bad… my imagination’s always going to jump to worse conclusions, you know?”

He nods lightly. He does understand that much these days. “You’re right.” This time his exhale is a full but quiet sigh. “It’s… Sometimes I can hear them. Or maybe, since I’m always asleep when it happens… I’m just catching some of their dreams.”

Cheria’s silent for a couple beats. “Lambda… and Fodra?”

Asbel nods again. “Yeah. I haven’t talked to him in a while, but… I guess that doesn’t matter. Even if he’s dormant, I can still pick up on some of the things in his mind.”

She pulls her legs up to her chest, arms on her knees. “What kinds of things?”

“I don’t… remember much,” he admits, “but… it’s always more feelings than words. Sometimes I see things. Memories, I guess. There’s a lot of them.” _Billions of years of memory,_ Lambda said once. Enough to drive anyone insane—enough to destroy a mind—if subjected to it in full. Have the last few nights been symptoms, in comparison, of only a little bit of exposure? “And a lot of anger in them. And grief.”

Cheria gives a sad, thoughtful hum. “He’s still working on Fodra, huh?”

“Seems that way.” Asbel breathes in as if about to say more, but then hesitates. “It… gets kind of intense sometimes,” he says quietly. “That’s all.”

For a moment neither of them speaks, but the silence is as comforting as anything that could be said. The calm around him is grounding, reassuring, a reminder of who he is despite the infinity dwelling in the back of his mind.

When Cheria takes his hand, she does so with both of hers as she pulls it into her lap, as if handling it with care. She doesn’t look at him, but keeps her head bowed forward for a long moment with her rose-colored locks hiding her face.

Asbel starts to worry that he’s gone and upset her—accidentally, again—and opens his mouth to ask as much, but he stops when she suddenly looks up at last. He doesn’t expect the smile. “I see…” Despite her expression, she still looks and sounds sad. “I had no idea you had so much going on inside you.”

“It’s not like you could have—”

“But I’m glad that—we can talk about this,” she goes on. Her hold on his hand tightens, just a little. “That… you’re honest with me about these things.”

Blinking at her, Asbel mirrors her previous head-tilt. “Why wouldn’t I be? It… kind of came with the vows, you know?” he adds, a bit self-conscious as he glances away again.

“I still have to drag it out of you sometimes,” she says more seriously. “Even so… I know that’s how you are. I know you mean well. It’s something I—” Even in the dark, Asbel can see the color creeping into her cheeks as she pauses. “I just—I’m glad that you trust me. And that you care so much. But… I trust and care about you, too, so… please don’t ever hesitate to tell me when something’s wrong, no matter how big or small you think it is. Okay?” She lifts her gaze with a steadfast look that belies her hesitant tone. He holds it evenly, a habit and respectful indication that he hears her words and he's taking them seriously.

“Okay,” he agrees. “But… it goes both ways, alright? No matter how big or small,” he echoes with a smile.

“Mm.” Cheria leans into his shoulder with a small, content sigh. He sets his chin on her hair, the last of his tension leaving his shoulders as he breathes her in. “You should go back to sleep,” she tells him a minute later. “If you start tossing and turning again, I’ll wake you up.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll be okay if you—”

“I want to,” she says firmly, her tone brooking no argument. She pulls back to fix him with a similar look. “Just… let me be the one to sit by _your_ side for once,” she adds more softly. “Let me look after you.”

It’s not quite a laugh that Asbel breathes out, but it sounds a little amused all the same. “You already do that every day.” In response to her curious stare, he just leans forward to kiss her forehead. “But thanks. I’m sure I’ll sleep better now.”

Even now, three years and two (biological) children later, Cheria still flusters a little bit at his affection, at least when it’s this casually bold. Her smile is a shy one as her face turns pink again, but she nods. A minute later and Asbel’s settled back under the covers, Cheria sitting with her back against the headboard and her hand still holding his. He stares upward for a while, his thoughts going nowhere in particular and his thumb caressing her knuckles absently. He’s still stiff and sore in places, but they’re background noise compared to before.

The rest of the night passes without incident. The next two are peaceful, with Cheria staying diligently and stubbornly awake for a couple hours after he falls asleep, just to be sure, before resting herself. In exchange Asbel doesn’t wake her until a little later each morning and makes certain Frederic knows to do the same.

On the third night, his hopeful peace is shattered again. Asbel doesn’t realize he’s drifted off until he wakes—abrupt and alert in a heartbeat just like before, his breath catching in lungs that feel too large for his ribcage and his vision tilting dizzily, blurred by images too rapid and incoherent to make out as his left eye throbs and burns—

But the warmth is new. It cuts through his aches and pains and draws his splintered focus to a point, until his mind clears enough to realize it’s Cheria: lying flush up against him, she has her arms around his neck and her forehead against his. It takes him another few seconds to interpret her quiet words.

_“You’re okay. I’m with you. You’re just dreaming. It’s okay.”_

It’s more of a chant than an interjection—words probably meant to soothe rather than wake. When he sets a hand on her hip, she jumps and retreats slightly to blink at him in the low light. “Asbel?”

“ ‘Sokay,” he says quickly, hoarsely. “You can… Stay there. Please.” He doesn’t want to lose that warmth. He wants to keep his guard down and trust her to watch over him just a little longer.

“...Alright.” Her arms retreat, but only so she can take his face in her hands—and then tilt it back, gently, to press a soft kiss to the side of his nose, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere,” she murmurs. Her lips find his hairline next, but they linger there as she pulls herself even closer, as much as she can.

Asbel does the same: his fingers glide down past the hem of her gown and onto smooth skin, catching behind her knee and dragging it up over his hip—lightly, imploringly, asking—and she obliges, helping him to press himself as close as possible. His hand slips under her gown as it moves back up, his palm hot against her cool back. Her next breath comes out heavy and her fingertips are trembling lightly as they weave through his hair—but they're still gentle, still considerate, recognizing that he wants and needs proximity over anything else right now.

They both relax as they settle into their tangle: Asbel still holding tight with his face hidden against her neck, Cheria stroking his hair and breathing words. He's not sure how long it takes for the mess in his head to finally start unraveling, but as things are, waiting isn't quite so bad. He listens to her breathing, her whispers, the sound of skin on skin as she massages his neck and he occasionally, distractedly strokes the dip of her spine. He pictures every touch of hers and the care with which she gives it.

As focused as he is on all these things, Asbel only eventually realizes that the echo in his head has grown dim, the weight in his chest isn’t quite as heavy, and each breath in and out no longer scrapes at his throat. The biggest relief is the lack of twisting shapes and shifting colors behind his eyelids; the visions have faded, for now, leaving no mark in his memory except the discomfort they caused.

His hold around her middle loosens, but stays. He feels her hands pause questioningly. “I’m alright now.” His voice is stronger than before, albeit tired. He pulls back, but only a little ways, enough to see her face and give her a reassuring smile when she appears uncertain.

The look is enough. She brushes some hair back from his forehead, watching him fondly now rather than anxiously. Asbel’s never been the type to look put-out when tired; if anything, exhaustion always seems to push him that much farther, as if he's too stubborn to let it have the last word. It's the same now: despite the telltale sweat on his skin and the pulse in his neck that hasn't quite slowed to normal, he pulls himself up with ease to share her pillow, putting the two of them at eye level.

She can only hold his mismatched gaze for a moment before growing self-conscious and dropping hers. With a small, amused sound Asbel leans forward until their foreheads touch—his hot to her cool, much like his hand on her back and his thigh beneath hers. Cheria still doesn't look up. She feels her cheeks grow warm as she remembers their proximity—and at the reminder that exhaustion also tends to make him more affectionate than usual, however that works, particularly after a lot of physical strain like a battle or spar—but the heat isn't entirely from embarrassment this time.

“How about you?” he asks suddenly.

“Hm? What about me?”

“You're really not worried?”

“Mm…” She places a hand on his chest, over his heart. “Not… worried, no,” she contemplates. “But I'll always be concerned.” Seeing him about to speak, she presses a finger against his lips, and this time does meet his gaze again. “I don't mean it's a bad thing. It's just… one more thing we'll face together, you know? That's all. So don't think it's something that you can just fix or make go away; that's not how feelings work, Asbel. That's not… how love works.” She fidgets, again looking away, and then pulls her hand back. “It's not perfect. But that's okay. At least... _I_ think so.”

Asbel watches her for several more moments still. This time she forces herself to hold that intense stare, determined to reinforce her words as much as possible, as long as necessary, until he understands.

Three years.

They’re both still learning.

Cheria feels another brush of his fingers, and then he smiles before closing his eyes briefly. When they open again, the intensity is gone, but not the focus. He’s looking at her, not through her, when he speaks. “I think you’re right.” He gives a small, self-conscious exhale of a laugh as he glances aside. “Sorry I’m… not really making it any easier.”

“Nothing’s easy about you, Asbel. I figured out that much a long time ago.” Her teasing smile goes unnoticed as she tucks herself against his chest. After what’s probably a puzzled few seconds, he decides not to press, and just holds her close as he also relaxes. “I’ll watch over you for a while,” she assures him, “so try to get some rest.”

She feels him tense slightly with a rising objection, perhaps a reflex response more than anything, but then he surprises her by withholding it. “...Yeah. Alright.” There’s a small, undeniable twinge of disappointment when his hand withdraws from her gown, but he quickly makes it up to her by winding his arm around her waist—and by speaking a few simple, quiet words that she’s both glad and relieved to hear:

“Thank you, Cheria. For looking after me.”


End file.
